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<title>To Lay Before the King, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum by murderofonerose (atmilliways)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099152">To Lay Before the King, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose'>murderofonerose (atmilliways)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>How to make a Pickles play his best, M/M, Multi, Sexual Bribery, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:13:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,092</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the band had spent most of yesterday waiting for Pickles to wake up from a “little lie-down nap” and still had yet to record the last of his parts for the new album so they could be done with this shit in time for Christmas, the drum kit was already in there and ready to go by the time Nathan and Skwisgaar snuck in.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nathan Explosion/Pickles the Drummer/Skwisgaar Skwigelf, Nathan Explosion/Skwisgaar Skwigelf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>To Lay Before the King, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <b>Dec 15 - Crossover with your favorite holiday song</b>
</p><p>The Little Drummer Boy is not actually my favorite Christmas song, but it's my dad's least favorite for some reason so it's always held a special place in my heart. 😈</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before recording sessions, the Klokateers always made sure to set up whichever instruments would be needed first in the booth well in advance. Since the band had spent most of yesterday waiting for Pickles to wake up from a “little lie-down nap” and still had yet to record the last of his parts for the new album so they could be done with this shit in time for Christmas, the drum kit was already in there and ready to go by the time Nathan and Skwisgaar snuck in.</p><p>They hid beneath the window so no one would spot them from the outside. Between the two of them, they had a couple bags worth of provisions and several blankets, for padding. While they waited, backs against the wall below the window, they passed a bag of artisanal (read: full of weed) gingerbread cookies and munched in companionable silence. </p><p>Of course, they couldn’t hear what was going on outside. Their first indication that the rest of the guys had arrived wasn’t Knubbler’s nasal voice insisting for the hundredth time that this really had to get wrapped up <em> to-day </em> if they were going to meet the production schedule that Charles had laid out for them, or Pickles groaning at Murderface’s complaining about how <em> unproductive </em> they’d been the day before because <em> someone </em> had <em> selfishly </em> decided to pass out before <em> sharing </em>whatever he’d taken.</p><p>“Where’s Skwisgaar and Nathans?” Toki asked, taking his seat on the couch with a bounciness that everyone else in the studio resented. He was also wearing a Santa hat and the garish light-up holiday sweater any of them had ever had the misfortune to witness. </p><p>“Who the fuck cares, dood,” Pickles snapped. “They both bitched me out last night, fuck those douchebags. I don’t need ‘em here to play drums.” And then he stormed around to the booth door. </p><p>That’s when they knew it was showtime. The drum kit shielded them from sight until Pickles sat down, and even then he didn’t notice until he already had the headphones on. Plenty of time for both Skwisgaar to be making exaggerated shushing gestures and Nathan holding up a piece of paper by the time he looked at them and nearly fell off his seat. </p><p>Knubbler must have said something over the mic, because Pickles’ eyes darted briefly between his hidden boyfriends and the window. They <em> had </em> ripped him a new one (figuratively) over missing the stupid recording session yesterday, but. . . .</p><p>In big block letters, Nathan’s sign read: </p><p><b>JUST PLAY 4 A</b> <b><br/>
</b> <b>XMAS PRESENT</b> <b><br/></b>
 <b>AND U CAN JOIN </b> <b><br/>
</b> <b>WHEN U R DONE</b></p><p>Pickles hesitated as he thought it over. “. . . Nnnah, nothin’ man. Just, uh, missed a little, heh. Too much rum nog, tis the season. You know me.” He clapped his hands together and reached toward a back pocket for his sticks, one leg bouncing with sudden extra energy and enthusiasm. “Okay, let’s get this fuckin’ show on the road!”</p><p>Nathan flashed a grin and a thumbs up, then stopped the paper to put in his heavy duty earplugs. “Y<em>ou ready? </em>” he mouthed to Skwisgaar. </p><p>Skwisgaar, who already had his earplugs in, tossed his blond hair over one shoulder. “<em>Alsways,"</em> he mouthed back. “<em>Lucky yous, Merry Christmas. </em>”</p><p>“<em>Smug asshole</em>,” Nathan mouthed, but was grinning as he grabbed a handful of black shirt and tugged the other third of Dethklok’s creative team into a long kiss. Skwisgaar responded by crowding him down to lay on the blankets they’d spread out on the floor, keeping his hair to his far side so that Pickles would have an unobstructed view. The only sound in the booth was the quiet smack of their lips as they got a steady rhythm going. </p><p>“. . . Christ, yeah, I’m goin’! Fuckin’ . . . now. No, just start the goddamn click track! . . . Okay. A-one, two, a-<em>one two three </em>—”</p><p>Between the earplugs and years of damaging their hearing with loud music, neither Nathan nor Skwisgaar heard the violent crash of percussion instruments as Pickles got going, only felt it. With the edibles just starting to kick in, it was like being wrapped in a fucking vibrator. Nathan bent a leg to brace across the floor and Skwisgaar ground eagerly against it while snaking a hand up the frontman’s t-shirt; Pickles skipped a beat and crashed to an abrupt stop. </p><p>“Shut up, I’m fine! Start it again!”</p><p>They kicked their boots off. Nathan got a hand in between their bodies and gave Skwisgaar a squeeze through his jeans, smirking into a groan that flooded into his mouth. He expertly got the belt undone (lots of practice) and tugged the jeans open, shoving them down quickly so the zipper wouldn’t catch on anything (lots of freeballing); the rest was all up to Skwisgaar as he scrambled to yank both pants and shirt off without popping up into view through the window. </p><p>Their kiss was an anchor, keeping his head down while his long arms flailed busily. Beneath him Nathan took full advantage of being on his back by only bothering to get his own jeans down to his thighs. When Skwisgaar broke the kiss to pull the shirt over his head Nathan cupped one hand to the back of his skull and helped keep him low . . . then urged him to move down. </p><p>Skwisgaar’s blue eyes flicked to meet Nathan’s green ones, and they both looked in unison towards Pickles, who immediately lost grip on one of his sticks. </p><p>“FUCKIN’. . . . No, Murderface, <em> yer </em> the butterfingers! Go take yer greasy mitts and go fuck yerself with ‘em!”</p><p>“<em>Good ones, </em>” Skwisgaar mouthed to Nathan. After all, the more Pickles screwed up, the longer they could keep doing this—and if there was anything he knew as well as playing guitar, it was drawing out pleasure. To that end, he licked his lips and slid down the other man’s mostly clothed body, a great big present all for him to unwrap, savoring the rasp of rough denim on his bare, sensitive skin. When he reached his destination and nuzzled the straining front of Nathan’s tighty whities he had the satisfaction of his hips twitching up in anticipation. </p><p>For his part, Nathan wasn’t really thinking about drawing things out. The carrot was effectively dangling in front of the horse now and Pickles clearly wanted it; motivation achieved. They’d done good. As Skwisgaar slowly exposed him to the warm air in the booth, warmer breath ghosting over his eager cock along with methodical licks and kisses and nibbles, Nathan half wanted to melt into being taken apart piece by piece and half wanted him to hurry the fuck up, wrap those plush lips around the head and swallow him down already. His big hands tangled in blond hair but couldn’t decide what to do from there, so after a moment he just started absently scratching blunt, black-painted nails against Skwisgaar’s scalp the way he liked, earning an unheard hum that just about reduced Nathan to a puddle.</p><p>Thankfully, he had Skwisgaar to lap him up. </p><p>“For the last. Fucking. Time. I do naht need a ‘Christmas snack,’ I do naht need a beer, I do naht need more cocaine, I want to hurry up and <em> finish this fucking shit, so turn the gahddamn track back on and hit record or SO HELP ME</em>—”</p><p>They couldn’t hear, but the vibrations around them were finally starting to carry the feeling of urgency and violence that the song called for. Skwisgaar noticed this distantly, but his pulse was racing to keep up with the beat and quickly sending more and more blood southward. Especially with the scalp massage Nathan was distractedly giving him sending waves of sensation rippling straight to his core. He licked his way up, dragging his tongue along the nearest convenient vein, savoring the taste of pre-come as he started to suck with one hand coiled around the thick base. His other hand was between his own legs, half fondling and half holding himself back from getting too excited too soon. </p><p>The sensation of Pickles’ eyes on him as he took more of Nathan into his mouth was a thrill, like being plugged into an electrical socket. If it weren’t for that hand, he might be too far gone already for concentrating on teasing the cock that throbbed against his soft palate. </p><p>It was hard to tell how much time passed as Skwisgaar drew the blowjob out until Nathan was practically weeping (not that he would ever admit it) with how much he wanted to just <em> come already</em>. Skwisgaar had him wrapped around his talented tongue, rendering all his brute strength useless (totally the edibles’ fault, he’d swear to it). At some point his hands had slipped from the man’s hair, one mindlessly clutching at the blankets beneath them instead while the other was crammed against his mouth to keep from making any sounds loud enough for the mic to pick up. </p><p>Pickles, meanwhile, was playing so furiously that his entire body shook with the force of it, dreads flying and sweat dripping into his eyes, and even when he blinked it away he could still see the other two going at it. The vision of them was burned onto the back of his eyelids: Nathan with his head thrown back and his back arched while Skwisgaar absolutely wrecked him. Pickles wasn’t even thinking anymore, beyond a basic recognition that this might be some of the best shit he’d ever recorded, and the silent mantra (in tempo, naturally) of <em> soon soon soon soon soon soon</em>—</p><p>“Done!” he yelled, after crashing to a final halt, panting from the effort for a few seconds, and then jumping to his feet. “That was . . . theat was good, right?!” </p><p>Ripping his eyes up from Skwisgaar releasing Nathan with a pop and gliding up to kiss the frontman and fondle their hard-ons together. . . . Ripping his eyes up from <em> that</em>, Pickles stared at Knubbler with a desperate intensity that made the producer roll back a bit in his chair. </p><p>“Oh looks,” Toki crowed in amusement in the background, nudging Murderface and pointing for him to look. “Pickle gots a boner from playings drums!”</p><p>“What’sch wrong with you, I don’t want to schee that,” Murderface protested, looking anyway. </p><p>“<em>T</em><em>ell me we’re done</em>,” Pickles growled, eyes still boring into Knubbler’s robot ones. </p><p>“Okay, okay, we’re done,” Knubbler said hastily. “Sheesh.” </p><p>He pressed whatever buttons he needed to press to save the recording, blah blah blah, Pickles already wasn’t paying much attention anymore. He sat back down and immediately realized he was rocking slightly back and forth on his seat, trying to get some friction going. Fucking whatever. They could all think he was nuts and about to fuck his kit for all he cared, just as long as recording was done for the day and they would <em> leave</em>. </p><p>Murderface left first, complaining about boners. Toki was next, saying something about some game he wanted to go play. When Knubbler was finished pressing buttons and whatever, he hesitated. “Hey Pickles, are you trippin’ balls in there?”</p><p>Oh god, he was so turned on that even Knubbler’s grating voice through the headphones, saying the word <em> balls </em> sent a jolt through him. “Yep,” he blurted out a little too loudly. “Trippin’ so many balls. So . . . fuck off, get outta here.”</p><p>“Okay, if you say so. . . .” Knubbler might have muttered something about Murderface being right regarding the inconsiderateness of not sharing, but he wasn’t holding the talkback button anymore and Pickles wasn’t paying attention except to make sure he left. </p><p>As soon as Knubbler was out the door Pickles ripped the headphones off so hard they hit the wall of speakers behind him. Stranglingly tight pants and underwear were shoved hastily down at least to his ankles; he sent cymbal and hi-hat crashing to the floor and kicked out the base drum in front of him in his eagerness to get to the other side of the room, tripping on it. (They were rich as hell, there were plenty of replacements available.) Then he flailed the rest of the way out of his pant legs, losing both shoes and one sock in the struggle, and finished scrambling to his destination. </p><p>The other two reacted more to the sudden flashes of movement than the sound. Nathan lolled his head around to look, and Skwisgaar looked up and blinked at him dazedly, but both smiled and reached out to welcome him in. He went for their earplugs first, specifically so he could whine “Fuckin dooshbeags” at them, then joined in for a Yuletide roll in the recording booth.</p>
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